


Calling Out Into the Endlessness

by HannahJane



Series: The Hand of the Goddess [2]
Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Fusion, Gen, Grimm - Freeform, Irish Mythology - Freeform, Mythology - Freeform, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahJane/pseuds/HannahJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dream is never just a dream... an interlude in "The Prayers of Your Children."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calling Out Into the Endlessness

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics (Loxian, so if they look odd, that's because it's a made-up language) and the title of the story are taken from Enya's song, "The River Sings."

_Title: Calling Out Into the Endlessness_

_By: Hannah_

_Rating: K_

_Disclaimer: The lyrics (Loxian, so if they look odd, that's because it's a made-up language) and the title of the story are taken from Enya's song, "The River Sings."_

_Summary: A dream is never just a dream…_

 

** November 14, 2000  **

 

Maybe it was the humidity, oppressive and pooling thick under the waistband of his basketball shorts. Maybe it was the thick white plaster cast that encased his leg from mid-thigh to the tips of his toes, heavy and uncomfortable and awkward. Maybe it was the knowledge that any chance at a full-ride scholarship to LSU had disappeared the moment that linebacker blitzed him, breaking his leg in two places. Hell, maybe it was the knowledge that he'd forgotten to take out the kitchen garbage last night and it would be a long time before he could perform that chore again. Doctor's orders were bed-rest for at least three weeks and then light activity. He was so depressed he actually wanted to do his chores.

 

Whatever it was – self-torment, pity, the heat – Nick couldn't sleep, even though he'd popped a Percocet nearly an hour ago in an effort to keep his leg from throbbing like a bass drum. Mostly awake, he laid in bed staring up at the white popcorn ceiling of his bedroom, willing his mind to shut up long enough for him to drift off into a drugged oblivion. Unfortunately, his mind was being an uncooperative dick and he was stuck in a Mobius strip, reliving that career ending hit again and again. Feeling the impact – low, too low, intended to decimate rather than incapacitate – the way his leg had felt in the split second before it snapped – intense pressure followed by a supernova of agony – the horror on his teammate's faces when they stood in a circle above him – even Kapinsky who had been trying to move up to starting quarterback for the entire season – everything.

 

In fact, Nick was so caught up in the memories playing like a movie across the backs of his eyes that he almost missed the humming. It wasn't until the familiar sound practically vibrated his back molars that he turned his full attention to the mystery musician. He opened his eyes and sat up on his elbows, looking around his room, finding it empty. The humming continued, low and spine tingling. Nick scowled. As far as dreams went, he'd been hoping for a better one than this. The singer who had been haunting his dreams since he was a child was not what he wanted to be thinking about right now.

 

"I'm not in the mood. Go sing to someone who actually wants to hear it." He muttered, laying back down, turning his face towards the wall, hoping this dream would slip into another, preferably one featuring Tessa Gardner and a sponge bath. The humming stopped abruptly like a hang-up during a phone call and suddenly the silence was almost as oppressive as the humidity. Nick signed in relief, his mind inadvertently drifting back to the slow motion trauma from the night before. Then something pinched his arm, hard. Dreams weren't supposed to hurt. Another pinch, same spot.

 

"Ow!" he jerked into a sitting position, rubbing his bicep, trying to ignore the answering throb of pain from his leg. The room was still empty and the humming had stopped, but someone had definitely pinched him.

 

"Self-pity is not an attractive trait, Nicholas." The voice came from the darkness, maybe from the direction of his half-open closet, maybe from under his bed. It reverberated around the room, feminine and sharp. Nick had to resist the urge to cringe like a chastised child.

 

"It's not self-pity. I'm seventeen and my life is already over." He said, folding his arms across his bare chest, glowering at the shadows around him, looking for the invisible speaker. As if in agreement, his leg throbbed even harder. "You wouldn't understand. You're my subconscious."

 

Another pinch, harder this time, on his thigh and Nick yelped again, slapping his hand over the aching spot to protect it. Confusion raced sideways through his mind, careening off synapses and gray matter. Was this a dream or not? Was a bug biting him while he was asleep?

 

"Does your subconscious pinch you often, Nicholas?" the voice sounded remarkably smug. It was so familiar that Nick almost felt that he could put a face to it, that a memory was tickling the back of his mind, wanting to be free.

 

"Stop that." He snapped, irritated at the condescension. He'd had enough of that from the doctor and his coaches as they tried to make him feel better about the fact that he would miss the scouts and college tours and his future. There was no reply to his outburst, the moonlight continued to filter into his room, he was alone... probably. It was still 50/50 as to whether or not this whole thing was a dream cooked up between his overactive subconscious and 500 mg of Percocet.

 

"Just a dream." He muttered. "A crazy masochistic dream." He moved to settle back down on his bed. Only when he put his head down, it was most definitely not on his pillow. Pillows didn't wear silk dresses or have the strong legs of an athlete. He waited for a few beats then slowly opened his eyes. A shadowy figure leaned over him, a figure whose lap his head was currently resting on, dark hair tumbling over slim shoulders, reaching down to tickle his forehead.

 

"Oh, so a dream then." He said even as a curl tickled his cheek.

 

"Stubborn. Ordinarily, I consider this an admirable quality in my charges." The girl above him spoke, her face lost in shadow aside from the shape of her hair. "With you, however, I struggle with the desire to turn you over my knee like a small child."

 

"Thank you… I think?" He said for lack of anything else to say because really, what did one say to a dream girl who seemed vaguely crazy? He couldn't see, but he felt as if the face above him was struggling to express either amused affection or murderous intent. Soft hands settled on either side of his face, stroking his face with cool fingers. Amused affection it was, then.

 

"Does it hurt?" Nick knew instinctively that his dream girl was asking about his leg. He shook his head and gestured in the direction of the nightstand where Aunt Marie had put his provisions – water, Percocet, tea – for the night, just a few hours earlier.

 

"Not really. Painkillers. I'm pretty sure they're why you're here. Drug-induced dreams and all that." He said and this time without even having to see, he knew the face was smiling. He could feel it in the set of her body. The hands never stopped, stroking lines of cool affection across his skin. The humidity suddenly seemed far easier to deal with, something easily pushed to the back of his mind.

 

"I am truly sorry that you were injured, Nicholas. But it was not something I could prevent. It was not a battle. I could not protect you." There was something like regret in the girl's tone as her fingers carded through his hair, blunt fingernails scratching ever so gently against his scalp. His eyes started to droop. As far as dreams went, this one wasn't terrible; maybe if he concentrated hard enough the mystery girl would become Tessa in a naughty nurse costume. The hand paused for a moment as if the owner had heard his thought and he sensed a brief moment of indignation before the touch continued.

 

"It was an accident." He said over the top of a yawn, the combination of cool fingers and lilting voice making sleep bubble to the surface of his mind. Against his will, his eyes slid completely shut.

 

"I could have broken his leg to prevent the injury to you." A hard edge entered the previously gentle voice and Nick cracked one eye open. The girl's face was still in shadow, but he knew there was an angry scowl somewhere in that darkness. Clumsily, he lifted one hand and patted her bare arm. Her body stiffened at the touch and he pulled his hand back, opting for the humorous route rather than sympathy. Mystery Girl didn't seem to be much for sympathy.

 

"Vindictiveness is not an attractive trait." He parroted her earlier words and let his eye shut. A sound that could have been either a sigh or a loud exhalation came from above him, but the stroke of her hand never stopped. They fell into silence, the chorus of the ever-present cicadas outside his bedroom window the only sound aside from his breathing and the rustle of her silk dress when he moved.

 

Nick was teetering on the verge of sleep when a door slammed somewhere in distance followed by the blare of a car horn and he jolted wide-awake, half-sitting up. The hand slipped from his hair onto his shoulder, gently guiding him back down. She murmured something, soft and incomprehensible, but her tone suggested an attempt to comfort.

 

"Sing me to sleep," He blurted out suddenly, aware of the absurdity of the request because this whole thing was already a dream and he was already asleep. It felt like it was the request that the girl was waiting for.

 

"I believe your words in regards to that were "sing to someone who actually wants to hear it"." She said, but with no censure. One hand adjusted his head into a more comfortable position against her thighs, the other continued its play in his hair. Nick decided Tessa wasn't needed here. The dream was perfect just the way it was… well, maybe the naughty nurse costume would make it better.

 

"A guy can't change his own dream?" Nick asked, grinning playfully up at her. He was aware that he was having a strange dream, having a discussion with a faceless girl in his bedroom, knowing she was a projection from the depths of his subconscious. Despite that he felt drawn to her in a nameless, timeless way, taking narcissism to a whole new level.

 

"Impertinent child." She commented drolly, but her free hand reached out and caressed his face, his eyelids closing automatically under the gentle pressure. The grin slipped off his mouth as he yawned again.

 

"Know any Sinatra?" He mumbled, shifting his shoulders until he could a more comfortable position against her bare feet. A faint smell like fresh-cut grass tickled his nose. He thought maybe it came from her.

 

"If you weren't so close to sleep, I would pinch you again." She muttered. Nick didn't reply, just breathed in her smell and waited. Mere moments later, her voice flowed out into the quiet of his room, cutting pathways through the silence. There were no words, just her voice lilting out notes that were so tender that they almost felt physical. The rhythm was up-tempo, but no less calming than if it had been a slow song. Nick felt his heartbeat matching the rhythm or perhaps his heartbeat was where she was getting her rhythm. Nevertheless the two were in sync. Without skipping a beat, the notes changed to words, a musical language that was otherworldly, one that was familiar and different all at once.

 

" _Yll yy-ka pirr o bay ru; Yl-y-ka kal-la kwyay la; O-na han-ee ay; A rhee o mmay._ " Nick didn't understand the words, but he figured he wasn't supposed to. Instead he focused on the warmth of her body, the coolness of her fingers, the easy way that she led him further down the dark path towards sleep, holding his hand. Oblivion had never been so inviting.

 

When Nick woke up next, the sun was creeping over the edge of his windowsill, slowly advancing towards his bed and he squinted against the brightness. Downstairs, he could hear Aunt Marie banging around in the kitchen, probably making him tea that he would never drink because her favorite blend smelled a little bit like sweat socks and marigolds.

 

Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, Nick sat up on his elbows and glared down at the cast on his leg. He would have rather that had been a dream than the enigmatic girl with an angel's voice and the devil's touch. Absentmindedly scratching an itch on his arm, he winced at the twinge of pain that greeted him and looked down at his bicep and stared, frozen, at the small purple bruise that marred his skin.


End file.
